


Welcome to Night Vale: The Microfic Meme

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Series: The Microfic Meme [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is Human, Cecil is Mostly Human, Gen, Kevin is disturbing, M/M, Mild Gore, microfic meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Smells like amateur journalism in here! Oh. Hey, Cecil."</p><p>Ten mini-fics for the price of one! With prompts from "angst" to "AU," some of these are ideas I had that never got off the ground, and others are just snippets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Night Vale: The Microfic Meme

**Author's Note:**

> I did this once for GINTAMA; it's a great writing exercise to get the juices flowing. TBH I really didn't know what to do with the "crack" prompt because … because Night Vale.

**1\. Angst**

 

"You're trying too hard." 

Earl swallows over the thick lump in his throat. "Maybe I didn't try hard enough," he says, staring at his orange-and-black sneakers. "He says he likes Tim Rios. He said so straight to my face!"

Steve Carlsberg throws an arm over his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Does he hate me?" Earl hates himself the moment he says it, but the question forced itself from his throat.

"No," Steve says quickly, giving him a squeeze. "No, it's just … Cecil spends so much time making star-eyes at other people that he doesn't realize when someone is making star-eyes at him." After a moment, Steve adds, "He isn't even serious about Tim Rios. He told me so; he's just really into Latinos right now."

Earl blinks away unshed tears, his heart fluttering a little. "Do you think I have a chance with him someday?"

"Of course," Steve says softly. "Of course."

It's a lie, albeit a kind one.

 

**2\. AU**

 

Monk Dana shoves open the door to Swapmeet Inn with more gusto than necessary. All eyes in the common room turn her way. The inn is crowded with knights, mages, and thieves—the perfect complements.

"Listen up!" she shouts. "The name's Dana. I'm a nine-dan in a badass martial art you've never heard of, and I'm ready to save the world. Who's with me?"

"Shit yeah!" While Dana is still reeling from the immediate response, a tiny knight in shining armor appears, wielding a sword larger than her. "Tamika Flynn: warrior, plus two against librarians, and Lawful _Amazing._ "

Dana and Tamika have enough time to exchange high-fives before they're joined by a third. She is cowled in the robes of a mage. "Just old woman Josie," she says in a sweet voice that belies her gnarled appearance. "Summoner. Mostly angels. The black one is strong against light-based enemies."

The fourth member of their party identifies itself as the Glow Cloud. It offers no class or levels, shoots a cow at Dana when she inquires about its choice of weapons, and declares its alignment as only "an alignment."

 

**3\. Crack!fic**

 

On Day Three of the Amorphous Eyeball Monster Rampage, the surviving civilians without megalophobia were ready to put Carlos's plan into action. They huddle in an alley not far from the Arcade Fun Complex, listening to the massive blob tear apart brick and mortar without a care.

"Okay," Carlos says, sizing up his meager troops as his camo lab coat flaps in the wind. "Here's how it's going to work. Steve Carlsberg, I want you to slow that thing down with your chainsaw."

"FUCK YEAH!"

"Tamika, I want you to run interference. No one can catch you, so give that thing a run for its money."

"Can do, Mr. Scientist."

"Cecil, I need you to get up there and dig out the jewel from the monster's eye."

"Gross, but okay."

"Random Secret Police Lady, you're with me. I need help with the liquid nitrogen."

"Yessir, Mr. Scientist."

"Question!" Cecil raises his hand. "Why is the _police officer_ not climbing the monster and _me_ helping carry the nitrogen?"

Carlos shrugs sheepishly. "Well, um—"

"You don't feel pain," Tamika points out. "If the monster gets a hold of you, you won't feel it."

Cecil gives her a look. "Uh, that doesn't mean it's _fun_. Or less _life-threatening._ "

Steve snorts. "How did I know you'd wuss out?" He leans over and nudges the Secret Police Lady. "When we were kids, I always said, 'Cecil, you _totally_ could not fight a ten-story eyeball.'"

Cecil shoves Steve into the officer. "When I get up there, I am going to dig out its sclera and throw it at your face."

"People," Carlos says loudly, raising his hands. "Let's be rational. We have a giant eyeball to put on ice."

***

Twenty-two minutes and three close calls later, Carlos is on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. His lab coat is in tatters, his hair in complete disarray—and despite the chill in the night air, he is drenched in sweat. Before him lies the remains of a giant eyeball monster, forever crystallized with liquid nitrogen, shattered to pieces across the street. Its jewel suffered a similar fate, lying in crimson shards along the ground.

"That was _epic_!" Tamika cries, pumping her fist into the air. Of all of them, she is the only one unscathed. "I can't believe so many people _missed that._ "

Random Secret Police Lady huffs out a laugh, lying on her side next to Carlos. He gives her a reassuring pat, and then crawls over to where Steve and Cecil are sitting. The latter is covered from head to toe in clear, viscous eyeball innards. More of the same is dripping from Steve's chainsaw, evidence of Steve literally carving Cecil out.

Steve claps a hand on Cecil's slimy shoulder. "Gotta say, I'm really looking forward to your hour-long special about me saving your life."

Cecil looks forlornly at the frozen remains. "Is it too late to crawl back in the monster?"

Carlos kisses him, slime be damned.

 

**4\. Crossover**

 

"Look, Chuckles—I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, but imaginary corn isn't what we asked you about."

The middle-aged man tips his hat to them. "I don't know nothin' about no demons, boys. I'm John Peters—you know, the farmer."

"No," Dean Winchester says through gritted teeth. "We _don't_ know."

Sam smoothly interjects. "What my brother means to say is that your corn is lovely, but we're in the market for something a little more … tangible."

"This place is corrupt," Castiel says, prompting everyone to turn to him. "My brethren are here, trying to keep the chaos at bay."

"Angels?" Sam asks. "Here?"

"No angels," John Peters says. "We certainly don't know about any angels. Or demons. Or atrociously offensive, culturally-appropriating hooligans."

"We have to find the source," Castiel says, tilting his head up to the heavens. "However the chaos is flowing from Hell to Earth. We need to close it, kill it, contain it—"

"Waste it, dust it. Gotcha, Cas." Dean frowns. This town is mysterious and its citizens uncooperative. Besides that, it seems to pack its own special brand of weird. Finding the source was easier said than done.

The radio behind John Peters crackles to life. _"The sands of time are flowing, always slipping away, always—always—coarsely ground into your eyes. Welcome … to Night Vale."_

Castiel's arm lashes out, gripping Dean's arm so tightly that he grunts in pain. "It's him," Cas says. " _It's him._ "

 

**5\. First Time**

 

The first time Kevin makes love, he commits the entire scene to memory. The full moon. The red lamps, the black silk sheets, and sweet cinnamon scent from the burning candles. Everything is perfect.

They both love hugs. Kevin hugs his lover tightly, canines biting into their flesh and fingers digging into their back. His lover hugs just as tightly, just as strongly. Kevin maps their body with kisses, memorizing every spot.

When it's over, Kevin slips away. On his way out, he commits the entire scene to memory. The darkness. The red sheets. The coppery scent of blood.

 

**6\. Fluff**

 

Cecil's phone vibrates. He could answer it, but that would involve moving Carlos. Instead, he snuggles further into the sofa, folding his arms over Carlos's legs and enjoying _Parks and Recreation_.

Carlos's phone rings next. He could answer it, but that would involve moving Cecil's arms. He ignores it, snuggling further into the couch and sifting through his e-mail on his laptop.

 

**7\. Humor**

 

Finally, Carlos cannot stand the negativity any longer. "Cecil," he says once the light turns green. "You love Steve Carlsberg."

"I _what?"_

Carlos spares him a sidelong glance. Cecil is wearing the face that demands Carlos explain himself or get out of the car. "You love to hate him. The opposite of love is _indifference_ , not hate. Love and hate—they both require passion, emotional attachment, twisted forms of attraction and fixation—"

"Stop talking, Carlos. Stop talking right now."

"I don't mean you're _in love_ with him. It's all deeply psychological. I'm only saying that if I were to come home one day and find your preoccupation with Steve had been, um, _exhausted_ , I'd consider it a scientific breakthrough."

It is a beautiful thing, to see Cecil Palmer speechless. Carlos wants to revel in the sputtering, but resolutely keeps his eyes on the road. Eventually the spitting fades into silence, and a quick glance proves that Cecil has fixed Carlos with a perfectly scandalized expression.

Twenty whole seconds pass before Cecil says, "Why would you do this to me."

 

**8\. Hurt/Comfort**

 

"Oh, my God," Carlos says, heart leaping to his throat just as his stomach drops to his feet. "What—what—?"

"Please don't panic," Cecil says, although he is deathly pale. "This can all be fixed. Do you have a sewing kit?"

"What the fuck," Carlos says, his voice a squeaky whimper. "What the actual fuck."

"Carlos," Cecil says very patiently, "I need you to stay with me here. I'm going to need your help. Please pick up my pancreas; I'm pretty sure I need it to live."

Carlos makes a sound akin to a baby animal dying a gruesome death. This cannot be happening. One minute, the shadows—the next, the sharp knife, a mirror shard—and Cecil—

"Carlos!" Cecil snaps, and then sways on his feet from the effort. Not possessing pain receptors only made him unaware of how badly he was hurt. "I'm going to die if you don't help me."

The words propel Carlos into action. He bends, scooping the wet, warm organ from the floor. He reaches Cecil in time to slow his collapse. They both end up on the floor, Carlos haphazardly shoving the organ back into the gaping hole in his boyfriend.

"Don't worry," Cecil says, voice slurring. In the distance, sirens approach. "I'm going to be fine."

"Your _torso has been unzipped,_ " Carlos screams at him. His vision is blurry; he's crying.

"I know," Cecil says simply. He reaches up, touching Carlos's cheek with warm, bloodied fingers. "It's okay. Everything's going to be fine." The sirens come closer. "It's going to be okay."

 

**9\. Smut**

 

One thing that does not get easier as one gets older: sex in a car. So far, all they have to show for it is a bumped head and a pulled muscle.

"This is so stupid," Cecil says through his snickering. "Why are we even doing this?" Carlos grunts, trying to thrust up. He succeeds, but Cecil bumps his head again. He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "We're adults. With houses. And no curfews."

Now Carlos is laughing, too. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." He runs his hand up Cecil's shirt. "So much for recapturing moments of youth."

"Hmm, maybe not." Without preamble, Cecil shoves the car door open and all but falls out, pants still caught around one ankle. He kicks them off, unconcerned that anyone could happen along behind the laundromat—or that the Secret Police were probably watching from somewhere.

"What are you doing?" Carlos asks, emerging from the car. He's still relatively decent, holding up his pants with one hand. 

With a coy little smile, Cecil saunters around the front of the car, looking pointedly at the hood. When Carlos goes very still, eyes widening, Cecil folds his arms. "Carlos, I don't walk around naked in parking lots for just _anyone._ "

As it turns out, Carlos has a bit of an exhibitionist side—and the Hybrid can take quite a bit of punishment. So can Cecil, for that matter.

 

**10\. UST**

 

It was supposed to be a press conference. Normally, the strict attendance policy meant the auditorium in the Earth Sciences Building was blissfully Carlsberg-free. However, Leann Hart had picked this particular week to hire a freelance photographer. _Naturally_ , the universe had to be unkind.

"Smells like amateur journalism in here," Carlsberg says very loudly. "Oh. Hey, Cecil."

Cecil is not a petty man, so he doesn't dignify Carlsberg's _stupid face_ with a retort. Instead, he turns the corners of his mouth ever so slightly upward—a mockery of a smile. "Steve."

"Quick, say 'existentialism!'" The flash takes Cecil by surprise; he yelps and covers his eyes, blinking dots out of his vision. "That is fantastic," Steve says, grinning at the photo. "Caption: _NVCR Host Flustered by Dashing Photog._ "

"Please," Cecil scoffs, "Ms. Hart doesn't run a _tabloid._ " He shoves past Steve, on the hunt for a good seat close to the podium.

Steve's hand on his arm brings him up short. For one keen moment, they are a fierce tableau: Steve's grip unyielding; Cecil fighting the eternal battle between being civil or just punching Steve in the face.

Then Steve says, "I still think about our date," and that is _it._

Cecil pulls away with enough force to bring Steve stumbling closer. "Touch me again, and you'll have to learn how to zoom and snap with one hand." He's surprised at his own snarling ferocity, but Steve's stupid smug smirk makes him cap it off with, "And it was _half a date._ " He turns on his heel, marching off with his head held high.

"Yeah," Steve calls after him, "but remember which half."

 

~Fin.


End file.
